


Genesis

by pasiphile



Series: This Life Is A Trip (When You're Psycho In Love) [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:22:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he was Jim Moriarty, he was just Jimmy, a street kid with more pain in his past and more ambition in his head than he could handle, and only one other person he could bring himself to trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> Follow-up to the 1994, Vauxhall, London, UK segment from [Mirror Mirror](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2372312), without which this probably won't make much sense.
> 
> Warnings: nothing too explicit apart from some violence-related gore and drugs use, but plenty of references to child abuse (sexual, physical, emotional), sadism, noncon, and mental health issues (bipolar and depression in particular). It's pretty gnarly, so tread with caution.
> 
> Thank you to hibernia and shayvaalski for the beta, and bisexualcyborg for the transfusion tips!

* * *

 

**I**

Bills.

She shuffles her envelopes and looks through the next few, frowning. The rain clattering onto the windows outside is giving her a headache. She should really look into getting a new, better isolated flat, but…

More bills, ads, pharmaceutical companies trying to ply her with samples. A Christmas card from Anne, two months late, and at that she has to smile.

Her doorbell rings and she absently goes to the hallway, still looking through her papers. A letter from the hospital, an invitation to some congress or another, something about a new health centre opening in the neighbourhood…

The doorbell rings again, loud and insistent. “Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, putting down her mail. She opens her door.

Jimmy is standing there, face expressionless.

She stares.

He looks like a drowned cat, all skin and bones, dark circles underneath his eyes, cheeks hollow. Far worse than last time she’d seen him.

She steps aside. He hesitates. She grabs his arm and pulls him in.

He’s shivering, violently, and – Christ, he’s thin, she can feel his bones beneath her fingers. He sways where he stands, and the diagnostic part of her brain promptly rears its head.  _Underfed, exhausted, possibly under the influence_  –  _check pupils breath temperature –_

“Didn’t know…” he mumbles. “Didn’t know where else – fuck.” He pulls his arm away and presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

He stinks, as well, the unwashed-clothes and stale-sweat stink of people sleeping rough, and there’s booze too – just on his clothes, not on his breath – and something sour like the contents of a bin, or vomit. What the fuck has he been up to?

She grabs his chin and tilts his head up. He meets her eyes. Pupils large, but narrowing when the light hits him. “Are you drunk? High?” she asks, sharply.

He shakes his head. “No, just…”

“Hurt?”

“No.”

“Can you shower?”

He nods. “Yeah, think so.”

“Come on, then.” She grabs his shoulders – like bird’s bones, like they’ll snap underneath the pressure of her fingers – and marches him to the bathroom. He stumbles only once.

“Get in,” she says, giving him a little shove. “Get cleaned up, go on, get warm. And call me if there’s anything. Jimmy?”

He nods, mumbles an absent  _yeah_ , then staggers to the sink.

Caroline gives him one last look before going to her kitchenette. Food, he needs food, something to keep him warm as well – blankets, and there’s a throw on the sofa. Would he have hypothermia? Didn’t look like it, but -

A bang from the bathroom. She slams the fridge closed and runs straight back, heart hammering.

Jimmy is kneeling on the bathroom tiles, hand against his head. “I fell,” he mumbles.

“No shit.” She goes down on her knee next to him and reaches out, but he swings his hand up, stopping her.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice a lot stronger than it was before.

“Yeah? Stand up unassisted and I might believe you.”

He breathes in, then gets up slowly, heaving himself up by the sink. “There,” he says. “Happy now? Or are you going to keep supervising me even when I’m in the fucking shower?”

“Charmed to see you’ve got your manners back.” She stands up. “I’ll be in the kitchen, don’t lock the door, yell if you need me.”

He nods, already turning away and taking off his shirt. It’s threadbare, full of holes, an irredeemable rag.

“And throw that in the sodding bin,” she adds.

He gives her a quick, though tired smile. She pulls the door closed behind her.

Puts her hands on the wall.

Right. Let’s provide some care, then.

***

He doesn’t come to her often, Jimmy. Every few months or so, to sew up a small cut, check a sprained ankle or wrist, get some prescriptions when he’s sick. She makes a point out of not asking questions other than the ones immediately pertinent to his health, out of some vague idea of creating a safe environment for him. She’s got no doubt that Jimmy would scarper, never to be seen again, the second she started pushing.

But this… Why the  _hell_  didn’t he come to her sooner if it was that bad? Pride, maybe. He’s a stubborn little shit. Even something as simple as asking for help with a bad case of food poisoning had already seemed to cause some strange inner resentment. Maybe asking for food and shelter was a step too far.

Little idiot.

She’s still rummaging in her fridge when the door creaks open and the scent of clean soap and steam comes in.

She straightens up and turns. He’s wearing nothing but her bathrobe, which looks ridiculous on him, and the few bits of him she can see all look painfully thin, bones sticking out beneath almost translucent skin, patches of bruising and scabbing discolouring the otherwise deathly pallor.

But he has regained his sharpness. No more swaying, and his eyes are focused. Back to his usual alley cat spitting hostility.

“Food?” she asks. “Or straight to bed?”

“Food.”

She gets out some cheese, butter, then goes through her cupboards in search for bread. “Have you eaten anything at all?” she asks over her shoulder.

“Some.” He flashes her a grin. “I’ll spare you the details, but bins were involved.”

“What about shelters?”

“I get beaten up at shelters. Or worse. Can I sit?”

“Please.”

He lowers himself gingerly into a chair, movements slow and careful.

 _Or worse_.

She sits down across and starts spreading butter onto slices of bread. He watches her carefully, his hands flat on the table. To prevent them from trembling?

“Don’t think anyone’s ever made me sandwiches,” he says, smiling.

“Mum never made you a sarnie, then?” she asks.

“I was lucky if she managed to feed me at all.” He runs his hands over his face. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

“Have you been sleeping?”

“A bit.” He slides his hands off and gives her a wan smile. “Always got to keep one eye open. Or two. Barely managed three hours last night.”

“And the night before that?”

He gives her another of those faint flat smiles. In reply, she shoves a sandwich at him. He gobbles it up in three large bites, his hunger apparently getting the better of him. His stomach rumbles loudly.

“So no food,” she says slowly, “no sleep, no roof over your head…”

“Basically, yeah. Can I…” He grabs another sandwich and wolfs it down. It’s oddly satisfying to watch, as well as slightly disgusting: Jimmy is obviously too hungry to bother about table manners. Crumbs are flying everywhere.

She gets up and puts on the kettle, turns to lean against the counter. Even from the back Jimmy looks bad: hair too long and stringy, bruises discolouring his left shoulder, the knobs of his spine standing out sharply where the robe has slid down his too-thin shoulders…

There’s something strangely vulnerable about the bare scrubbed-pink nape of his neck.

“How’s your health?” she asks.

He laughs with his mouth full. “What do you  _think_?”

She reaches out to put her hand on his forehead, take his temperature – the normal follow-up to a question like that, isn’t it? – but the second she touches him he flinches away, hard.

She stops moving, hand still held out.

A few months ago, her sister had found a stray feral kitten stuck in her garden shed. The thing had been half-mad with fear, starved and terrified, and yet when Sandra had tried to rescue it she’d been bitten hard enough to make her bleed.  

It’s that spitting bundle of bones and terror she thinks of now.

“Can I…?” she asks. She slowly puts her hand back. He lets her, watching carefully, still chewing.

He’s hot beneath her palm, but not scorching. Mild fever, nothing serious.

She sits back. Jimmy continues watching her, still eating. Nothing serious, but he’s pale, and that rash could be a symptom of something worse, and god knows what else he might have been infected with in the last few months. “We’re doing a full medical exam in the morning,” she says. “No arguments.”

He shakes his head, swallows his last bite. He’s starting to droop, eyelids falling closed, swaying then abruptly pulling himself awake again.

Wasn’t that a form of torture, once? Sleep deprivation?

“Come on, bed,” she says firmly.

“No sofa this time?” He gets up, leaning one hand on the table to keep his balance.

“No.” She holds his upper arm and guides him to her bedroom. The second he’s at her bed, he drops the robe – not an ounce of shame on him, nor an ounce of fat – and crawls underneath the blankets.

He seems to fall asleep the moment his head touches the pillow.

She stands at the bed and watches him.

This isn’t appropriate. Doctors should keep distance from their patients. She shouldn’t see patients in her free time, shouldn’t let them in her house, shouldn’t feed them from her own fucking fridge.

On the other hand, continuity of care, right? And she knows for a fact Jimmy wouldn’t even consider going anywhere else for help.

He’s her responsibility, like it or not.

***

She calls in sick the next day. It’s for Jimmy’s sake, not hers, but even so she feels a rush of relief, of  _delight_ at the prospect of spending a day away from work. Which is something she should probably examine more closely.

Later, though, not now; now, she’s going to need all her mental energy for the little ball of sarcastic fury currently sleeping in her bed. So she starts to work on her backlogs of paperwork –  _fucking_ paperwork – and waits for Jimmy to wake up.

Morning turns to noon, and still he’s asleep. He doesn’t rouse when she peeks inside, doesn’t even react when she takes his temperature again.

She thinks of what he said -  _one eye open –_ and the way he looked when she touched him without warning, without permission.

And she goes back to her reports.

It’s near five o’clock when she finally hears some stumbling from the bedroom, and a few moments later Jimmy appears, once again huddled in her thick robe.

“Afternoon,” she says calmly. “Food’s in the fridge, clothes –  _new_  clothes – in the bathroom.”

He frowns at her. “Where did you get men’s clothes?”

“I steal from my boyfriends. Take a shower first, you’ve sweated quite a lot.” She turns back to her writing.

“I hope you have a thing for short men,” he says casually.

“A fair few of them were short-arsed buggers, don’t worry. Call me when you’re cleaned up, I still need to examine you.”

He chuckles as he takes off to the bathroom. “Make me sound like a specimen, why don’t you.”

“Hardly. My specimens aren’t a fraction of the bother you are.”

He laughs, and then the door falls closed behind him.

She leans back in her chair and runs her hands over her face.  She isn’t particularly looking forward to this. He’s odd, Jimmy. Well, of course he’s odd, but he’s hardly the first unusual person she’s met. It’s her reaction to him that’s odd. She keeps forgetting about him, thinking she remembers the way he is, and then he shows up and it’s like a punch in the gut.

And she can’t even pinpoint why. Sure, he can be annoying, but she’s got plenty of experience dealing with nagging, with condescension, with inappropriateness and aggression and indifference. That shouldn’t throw her. And yeah, he’s in a pretty horrible situation, but so are loads of her other patients. There’s nothing especially shocking about Jimmy that justifies her reaction to him.

And yet.

She shakes her head and goes back to her paperwork.

***

He calls her in about half an hour later. The whole bathroom smells minty-fresh, steam clouding the mirror, and Jimmy’s skin is scrubbed pink.

He’s naked when she comes in, calmly, casually, defiantly.

“Is the sight of your cock meant to make me faint in horror, then?” she says, as she snaps a glove on.

“I don’t approve of the underwear you donated.” He holds up the boxers, dangling fastidiously from one held-out finger.

Her mouth twitches. Derek, right? The simple sight of those burgundy silk boxers is enough to bring back the mostly-fond memories.

“I’ve got a pair of faded grey Y-fronts around here somewhere as well, if you want?” she asks, taking out her stethoscope.

He scrunches his nose. “I’d rather not, thanks.”

“High words from a dumpster-diver.”

“It’s not like I make a  _habit_  out of – ”

“Breathe in.” She puts the stethoscope against his chest – he flinches at the cold – and listens to his lungs. A little raspy, but nothing more than you’d expect from someone sleeping rough in this weather. “Cough.”

He does. “Not offering me some of your lacy knickers, then?”

“What makes you think I’m the sort of woman who owns lacy knickers?” She pulls off her stethoscope and takes a thermometer.

“The contents of your knicker drawer.”

She gives the thermometer a threatening wave. “Don’t make me shove this up your arse.”

“Oh, Caro, come on.” He smiles. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep in your bed if you minded that much. By the way, that pink vibra-”

She shoves the thermometer in his mouth, effectively shutting him up, and turns to the rash on his skin. Again, it’s a fairly innocent sort of thing; unpleasant enough, but easy to solve.

So no serious health issues. Seems like all he needs is some rest, some proper food, and he’ll be back on his feet. Strong little thing, really.

He pulls the thermometer out of his mouth. “Yesterday…”

“What?” she asks, taking it from him.

“Did I say something?”

“No,” she says absently. She checks the temperature – thirty-seven degrees still, that’s –

“Don’t  _lie_ to me, Caroline.”

She looks up. Gone is the joking mood, the easy smile. He’s staring at her, fixed and threatening – and he shouldn’t  _be_  fucking threatening, he’s a kid, a naked thin as a rake sick broke kid. And yet there he is, somehow exuding enough danger that she genuinely feels a little unsafe, for the first time in a long long while.

She shakes it off. “Fine,” she says, steadily. “You said something about your mother not feeding you. Hardly the combination to the safe, is it? Or whatever it is you’re hiding.”

He turns away and gets the jeans she put aside for him. Putting his back to her.

She sighs. “Jimmy…”

“What?” he says. Flat, unemotional, cold.

“I’ll…” Deep breath. Stay calm. Don’t get pulled in. “I want to take a blood sample, have it analysed.”

“Do you.” He looks over his shoulder, shrugs the shirt on. “Worried about contagion, are you, even with those gloves?”

“Worried about your health.”

He winces, then looks down, buttoning his shirt. “Fine,” he says. “Take blood. Take urine, take every bodily fluid I have if it makes you happy.”

“Blood will do, thanks.”

He gives her a quick look, a ghost of his usual flirtatious smile on his lips. “Sure you don’t want me to rub one out for you?”

“Funnily enough I  _don’t_. Come on.” She snaps her fingers. “Food first. And then we’re going to have a talk about what you’re going to do next.”

“Yes  _ma’am_ ,” he says, with a mocking little salute.

Little shit.

***

One of the few benefits of being an A&E doctor is having a pretty wide professional network, and so it only takes a few calls before she finds Jimmy a temporary place to stay, a charity willing to donate clothes, and a soup kitchen offering free food. She even wangles him a job.

“ _Kitchens_?” he says, face a picture of disgust.

“It’s a fancy place, it’ll keep you paid and fed, and you and everyone else will be too busy working for you to cause trouble.”

“I think you’re underestimating my ability to  _cause trouble_ ,” Jimmy says, examining his fingernails.

She clucks her tongue in irritation. “Well, yeah, if you want to kick up a fuss just to satisfy your ego I’m sure you can, but Christ, Jimmy, just grow up, will you?”

He gives her a very sharp look. “ _Grow up_?” he repeats, voice dripping with something deeply unpleasant.

She refuses to look away. “Yes. Grow up. Be responsible. Get a job, earn money, interact with people other than trying to rob or fuck them. That’s what being an adult is, lad.”

He stands up and goes over to the window, shoulders tight. She lets him brood. If the little shit wants to throw a little teenaged tantrum, fine, but she’s not going to let that spoil her morning. Or her breakfast.

“Can I stay here tonight?” he asks suddenly.

She chokes on a mouthful of coffee. He gives her a quick, mocking look – never misses anything, Jimmy – and his lip curls in something like contempt.

“You can stay in your new place, if you want,” she points out, once she's stopped coughing. “There’s no need to stay here.”

“I know that. I’m still asking.”

He’s still a boy. It’s hard to remember, because he  _makes_ it hard to remember, but beneath those flint eyes and that aggressive attitude and the careful probing intelligence he’s still just a lost kid.

She meets his eyes, and says, calmly, “Yeah, of course you can stay. Now sit down and finish your meal.”

His mouth twists. “Yes,  _mother_.”

She flips him two fingers.

***

He goes to bed not that long after dinner, tired again, even after almost twenty hours of sleep. God knows how much sleep he's lost recently, how long he's been staying in places where he's too scared to even close his eyes.

But she can't dwell on that. The present, the future, that's all that matters. She does one last round of calls, making sure everything is in order, then goes to bed as well.

She wakes up in the middle of the night, in a rush of unexplainable anxiety. She’s a light sleeper, but she only wakes up alert like this in emergencies, so what’s –

And then she hears a noise.

She goes to the bedroom and carefully opens the door. Jimmy is sitting bolt upright, eyes wide and staring into nothing.

“Jimmy?”

He doesn’t react, mouth open, frozen.

She goes over and sits down on the side of the bed. “Jimmy, I need you to listen to me. Alright? Take a big breath for me.”

For a few moments nothing happens, and she’s just starting to really get worried when he swallows and breathes in, deeply.

“Alright. Feel that?” she says, careful not to touch him. “The air in your lungs? Keep doing that, slow and deep, nice and easy. That’s it. Now, can you feel the sheets underneath you? The structure of them? Soft, aren’t they? You can feel the threads. And there’s wind blowing, can you feel it on your skin, a bit cold?”

His breathing deepens, and his eyes look a little clearer.

“That’s it,” she says encouragingly. “Just keep breathing, nice and deep. Feel your heartbeat? And the mattress underneath you. You’re on a bed. You’re in my bedroom. Remember, Jimmy? You’re fine.”

He swallows, licks his lips, shifts a little. And then his eyes go to her – unfogged again, back in the present, but he still looks haunted.

“How are you?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Fine, more or less.  _Now_ ,” he adds, with an angry edge to it.

She quietly pours a glass of water and hands it to him. He drinks, watching her again.

“How long have you had them?” she asks, when he puts the glass away.

“The nightmares? Always.” He runs both hands over his face. “They’ve got worse, though. I can’t – I mean, it’s hard. Sometimes.”

“You can stay longer, if you want,” she says. “I don’t mind.”

“No, I just – ” He swallows again. “I needed you to see, because I don’t – This is why I can’t go to shelters. Why it’s not – not safe, I can’t, I just – ”

She takes his hand and gently pulls it away from his arm. He blinks, gives her a confused look.

“You were hurting yourself,” she says softly.

He looks down at the crescent-shaped marks in his arm, tinged red with blood, and the matching stains on his fingernails. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He leans back against the headboard, closes his eyes, frowns. “I’m  _scared_ , Caroline,” he mumbles. “I’m scared because I can’t – can’t control this and if I can’t trust myself then what’s the fucking  _point_? Am I losing my mind?” He looks up and grabs her arm, jagged fingernails digging into her skin. “Am I going insane?”

“No,” she says, with a certainty she doesn’t feel.

“Then what’s – ”

“You’re  _tired_ , Jimmy. That’s all. You’ve been living in constant stress for far too long, it’s normal that you’re having a – a reaction. Just settle down a bit, give yourself some time.”

He lets go of her arm. “And they’ll go away?” he asks, trusting like a child. “The nightmares? They’ll stop?”

 _No_ , she thinks.

“Yes,” she says.

***

She sees him off next morning.

He spends a little too much time in front of the mirror just before he leaves, as if he needs to re-familiarise himself with his mirror image. New clothes, hair cut and washed, a careless smile on his lips. Unrecognisable from the stray she found at her door two nights ago.

“Jimmy?” she asks.

A quick glance. “Yeah?”

“Next time something like this happens – no,  _starts_  to happen, you come to me.” She folds her arms, tries to look strict. “No hesitation. Alright?”

His smile takes on an amused, condescending edge, and he turns to face her fully. “Really?” he asks. “Are you sure you know what you’re offering?”

“Yes. I can’t offer you indefinite free lodgings, but if you ever need a safe place to crash, just – just come over.”

He tilts his head. “Can’t stand the thought of me in a shelter, can you?”

“No. But it’s not just that.”

He frowns, but he’s still smiling, like she’s some kind of entertaining puzzle he can’t make immediate sense of. “Then what?”

“Duty of care.” She grimaces. “You’re my job.”

He pulls a face. “That a roundabout way of asking me for payment?”

“No. Just… I’m your doctor.” She uncrosses her arms and takes his shoulder, careful not to move too quickly, to give him room to pull back if he wants to. “Your wellbeing is my concern,” she adds softly.

He gives her a long look, amusement gone.

Then he nods.

“I’ll be seeing you, then,” he says, equally soft. “Doctor.”

 

 

* * *

 

**II**

 

“You’re working too hard.”

“And hello to you too, Sandra.” Caroline smiles into the phone. “How are the kids?”

“Fine. Jamie won his last match and is proud as a peacock, and Ella started ballet two weeks ago. She’s been asking after her auntie, by the way.”

“Tell her I’ll drop by soon as I can. And how’s the husband?”

“Ah.” Sandra snorts. “The  _husband_.”

Caroline leans back and lets Sandra rail, first about Steve and his general uselessness, then the kids and how annoying they’ve been recently, and then the stress of the job and the incompetence of new staff. Caroline makes sympathetic noises and asks the occasional question and generally simply lets her sister feeling-vomit all she wants.

“- new one is honestly one of the worst I’ve seen. How do you drop  _six_ plates in one day? One, I can understand. Even two if you’re the jittery sort but  _six_?”

“Yeah,” Caroline says vaguely. Then a thought hits her. “Speaking of staff, how’s Jimmy doing?”

“Jimmy?” Sandra asks, sounding puzzled.

“Yeah. That kid I sent you to work in your kitchen? Short feller, late teens, Irish, pale with dark hair and eyes…”

“Oh,  _him_.”

Caroline smiles.  _Him_ , said in an ominous and heavy tone; yeah, that describes Jimmy pretty well.

“He’s gone.”

Caroline’s smile drops. “Shit. Gone gone?”

“Yeah, stayed on for a few months, got surprisingly good, then disappeared off the earth. It’s a shame, really, he was good.”

“Really?” Caroline asks, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

“Yeah, totally unexpected exit. He – ”

“No, I meant… He was doing  _well_?”

Sandra laughs. “He was doing more than well. Picked up everything ten times faster than any of the other staff, took initiative when needed but obeyed without a hitch… He really had an instinct for the work. And not just that, he stepped up a few times when a waiter fell sick and he did amazing, favourite with a lot of clients – you’ve got a real charmer there, Caroline.”

“But he quit?” Caroline asks, still trying to process the idea of Jimmy doing good, being liked.

“Yeah. Well, he just stopped showing up. We called his contact number, no answer, and he didn’t have any friends we knew of, so… Came as a complete surprise as well, because we were seriously thinking about making him garde-manger, and he knew it.” She pauses. “What is he to you, Caroline?”

“Just a stray I picked up.”

“Ah,” Sandra says, significantly. “One of those.”

“Oh, don’t start. You’re sure he didn’t leave an address?”

“Yeah.” There’s a clunk and a shout on the other side of the line. “Anyway, I should be getting ready for work. Take care of yourself, will you? And don’t worry too much about the kid, he seemed like he could take care of himself.”

“Yeah, he’s good at seeming.” Caroline runs a hand over her eyes. “See ya, Sandra. Say hi to El from me.”

“Will do. Bye.” And she hangs up.

Caroline hesitates for a moment, then gets her phonebook out and starts calling again.

She checks with his social worker, the landlord of Jimmy’s flat, even the soup kitchen, but they all give the same story: disappeared overnight, never to be heard from again. So she goes to his flat and talks to his neighbours, then tries the police, just in case, and when even that gives her nothing she starts visiting the nearby shelters.

There’s no trace of him.

“Fuck’s sake, Jimmy,” she says tiredly, then trudges home trying to get rid of that lingering feeling of  _failure_.

***

“Why do you care so much, anyway?” Lisa asks.

Sometimes it worries Caroline that the only non-patient-related social interaction she has these days is drinking shit coffee with colleagues in the hallways of the hospital. Maybe Sandra has a point, maybe she  _is_ working too hard – but that’s this fucking job, never letting go, never allowing her one moment of rest…

“Caroline?” Lisa prompts.

She rubs her forehead. “’Cause he… I don’t know. Because he trusted me and no one else, I suppose.”

“Makes you feel special. Well, fine, but I doubt you’re really his  _chosen one_ , love.” She takes a sip from her coffee and scrunches up her nose in disgust. “God, this is shit.”

“I’ll bring a thermos next time.”

“You do that.” Lisa gives her a look. “Do you feel responsible? For the kid, I mean.”

“No, not really. It’s not that. It’s more like –” She waves a hand around, looking for the right words. “I want to  _help_.”

“So? You want to help all your patients, but you don’t go chasing them around homeless shelters.”

“Yeah, well, he’s… You’ve got this sense of potential, when you talk to him. He’s clever, Lisa, unbelievably clever. But damaged.”

“Hm,” Lisa says dubiously. “Just don’t get overinvolved, Caroline.”

“I won’t.” She smiles. “You know me, cynical emotionally detached bastard.”

“Yeah.” Lisa gives her a significant look, then chucks her half-full cup into the bin and stretches. “Well, I’m back to work. Got an arse shove.”

“Dildo?” Caroline asks. “Or carrot?”

“Cucumber.”

“Ooh, someone got ambitious.”

“Oh, the joys of A&E.” She pats Caroline on the arm, then takes off. “Don’t lose the detachment, Caroline,” she says over her shoulder. “It’s what makes you a good doctor.”

“I thought it was my _sunny and cheerful demeanour_ ,” she yells at Lisa’s retreating back.

Lisa laughs hard enough to make the sound echo through the hallway.

***

It’s late when she gets back home, even by her standards. Her head is throbbing with a headache that's been plaguing her for hours and her hands, which she forced to be steady for far too long, are trembling so hard she can barely hold her keys without dropping them. Working too hard - well, yeah, but it's not like she has a choice, here, is it?

It's draining, though. A ten-hour shift of which she spent two up to her elbows in blood, the heart monitor's beeping like a constant threat... She literally held a man’s heart in her palm, for god's sake. How the hell are you supposed to cope with that?

She sighs, tries to unlock her front door and only succeeds on the third try. Bloody useless. Maybe she should just ask for a holiday, get some time off to recover, take some decisions. Wouldn't it do her good, to - 

She freezes, hand halfway to her purse.

Jimmy is sitting at her table, casual as you like, trying to awkwardly bandage his hand.“Evening, honey,” he drawls. “How was work?”

She puts down her bag. “A&E too much bother?”

“I’m trying to keep out of the system.” The bandages slip from between his fingers and he curses.

“Yeah, I noticed.” She goes over and sits down at the table, peels the haphazard bandage away. Beneath it, his knuckles are split, skin abrased and bruised.

She looks up at him and he gives her a sunny smile, showing off the blood on his teeth and gums.

“What did you do, then?” she asks, reapplying the bandage.

“Apparently I need to learn to keep my gob shut.”

She blinks, runs that sentence through her mind, then spots what’s wrong. “What happened to your accent?”

“Trying out another one. What d’you think, then? Do I pass as a proper Londoner?”

“You’ll need some more practice.” She tapes the bandage down and snaps her fingers. “Shirt off.”

“Why, Caro.  _Finally_.”

He pulls it over his head. As she thought, the right side of his chest is mottled with starting bruises, angry and red.

She sighs. “For fuck’s sake, Jimmy.”

“Sorry,” he says, unconvincingly.

She runs her fingers over his thin ribcage, checking for breaks.

“Heard you’ve been asking about me,” Jimmy says casually. She can feel his eyes burn on the back of her neck.

“Yeah. You disappeared without a trace, I was worried.”

Jimmy snorts. “I  _disappeared_ six weeks ago. Bit late to get all worried, innit?”

“I only heard last week.” She moves to the other side of his chest. “I don’t keep tabs on you, Jimmy. I just heard by coincidence.”

He stays silent.

“So why did you quit?” she asks, when he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Sandra told me you were sur- that you were good at it.”

“ _Surprisingly_  good?” He smiles. “Yeah, I suppose they didn’t expect street scum like me to be able to artfully arrange slices of artichoke, did they? But yeah, I quit.”

“Why?”

“I got what I needed from it.”

She looks up. “Do you see  _everyone_  as things you can just squeeze advantage out, then discard?”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow, half surprised and half mocking. “Well, yes. That’s what keeping me alive, you know.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” He holds his hand out for his shirt, and something in her face makes him smile again. “Don’t  _fuss_ , Caroline. I can handle it.”

She hands him his shirt back. “I don’t doubt that. But…” She trails off, shakes her head. “Why? You had something going on at the restaurant, a chance at a good life, and you gave it up for this?” She gestures at his bandaged hand, his bruised ribs. “Why would you…”

“Because it’s more fun,” he says, eyes widening childishly. “Be my own boss, do what I like, all the freedom and the world at my – ”

“ _Stop it_.”

He falls silent and cocks his head, studying her.

“I mean it.” She straightens up. “If we’re doing this –”

“Doing what?”

She gives him an unimpressed look. “Rule one. Don’t bullshit. You don’t want to tell me something, fine, just say so. But no lies.”

“Fine,” he says, with a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

“So. Why didn’t you try, at least? Living a normal life?”

He stares at her, those black eyes cold and unreadable.

Maybe she made a mistake. Maybe she should’ve kept him at a distance, shouldn’t have invited him in like this. But what sort of complete and utter heartless cunt would see that desperate aching  _need_ , and then kick him out?

He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you.”

“Fair enough.” She runs her hand through her hair, tries to think. “We’ll need to go over your full medical history at some point, as well.”

He smirks. “That’ll be an experience.”

“I’m counting on it. Anyway.” She points at his chest. “Bruised, not broken. Don’t smoke, keep breathing deeply, don’t use bandages. It’ll hurt like hell for a few weeks, but then it’ll heal.”

“You’ve got shit bedside manners, you know,” he says, amused, as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of cigarettes.

“Which part of – ”

“Don’t smoke? Oh, come on.” He flips a cigarette between his split lips and gives her a grin. “Reasonable requests, doctor.”

“If you want to slow the healing process, fine. It’s your business if you want to fuck up your lungs just because you can’t control your addiction.”

He hesitates, lighter halfway to his cigarette, then puts it down again. “Fine,” he sighs, put-upon. “I’ll play the good little boy. If that’s what you’re into.”

“Are you staying here tonight?”

And immediately, like flipping a switch, the easy flirty teasing falls away. “Why?” he asks suspiciously.

“So I know if I’ve got to take the spare sheets out.”

He’s silent for a while. Then he asks, “You don’t mind?”

“I don’t.”

He looks down. Without the show-offy confidence, the leering, he looks disturbingly young. Not even twenty yet, if she’s any judge. A  _kid_.

And then he looks up and she loses all thought of innocence and youth.

“Maybe you should.”

***

He seems to sleep peacefully, that night, or at least he’s quiet enough that he doesn’t wake her up. She gets up at her usual hour and calls in sick, complete with fake cough. It’s believable enough that they don’t ask too many questions.

She puts the receiver down again and bites her lip. Relief, again, at not having to work. Sure, everyone enjoys a day off, but is it supposed to be this intense? Besides, dealing with Jimmy isn’t exactly a walk in the park either, and yet she’d choose that over the hospital any bloody day.

Worries for another time. She retreats to her kitchen table, along with a notepad, some spare forms for later, and a pile of scientific articles she’d been hoarding for the last few months but somehow never got around to reading, and keeps herself busy.

Around eleven she can hear the door opening in the hallway. She steels herself, but he doesn’t show up, and a few moments later the shower starts running.

She goes back to her article, smiling slightly. Bit of a neat freak, little Jimmy, which makes the dumpster diving and the living rough all the more grating. He must have fucking  _hated_ it.

Or maybe she’s reading too much into it, maybe he just likes the idea of racking up the figures on her water bill. He’s petty enough for it.

About twenty minutes later he saunters into her kitchen all lazy grace and casual dominance – an act that falters when he spots the empty manila folder, his name written on the front. “What’s that?” he asks, a little too sharply.

“Your soon-to-be file. Sit down.”

“A file?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, it’s confidential, and I’ll keep it out of the system. But I can’t keep treating you without a way to follow up, or reference back, alright?”

He slowly sits down, and she thinks of Sandra’s kitten, gingerly skirting around the edges of the house, ready to bolt at every movement it perceives as threatening.

“It’s confidential,” she says again. “No one will ever see this but me, I promise you. Alright?”

He nods, still serious. “Fine. But if you ever…”

“I  _won’t_ , Jimmy.”

“Yeah.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, an oddly transparent protective gesture. “What do you want to know?”

She flips open a folder. “Basic stuff first. Date of birth?”

“Don’t know.”

She sighs and puts her hand over her eyes. “Look, Jimmy, if you don’t want to do this just – ”

“I  _don’t know_.”

She looks up. He’s smiling, that particular hard cruel smile he uses when he’s covering up how he really feels.

“Really?” she asks.

“Really.”

“Well – something a bit less specific?” she asks, feeling around, trying to find the edges. “Spring, summer, winter?”

He chews his lip. “Spring. I think.”

“Right. Year?”

“Seventy-eight. Probably.”                                                                   

She gives him a look. He shrugs, still smiling.

She jots it down. “Fine. Okay. Family. Any hereditary diseases? History of cancer, haemophilia, that sort of thing?”

He folds his hands behind his head and looks at the ceiling, chair balancing on its hind legs. “Would you believe me if I told you – ”

“You don’t know?” She sighs. “Jimmy, for fuck’s sake, I’m trying to help here.”

The chair bangs down on the floor. “I don’t know who my father is,” Jimmy says. “And neither did my mother. Put the pieces together and  _move on_ , because I’m getting tired of this.”

Something inside of her twists unpleasantly.

And yet, at the same time she thinks,  _ah_ , s _o that’s why._ It’s a mean, ugly, nasty little thought, but not one she can stop.

“Right.” She shakes her head, tries to get her bearings.  “Mother’s side, then?”

“Not sure. A grandfather dying of lung cancer, but basically everyone on that side was a chain-smoker, so.”

“Okay. Fine. Childhood diseases?”

He shrugs, one-shouldered. “The usual. Nothing serious.”

“Inoculated?”

“Probably. I passed through child protection services more than once, they’d have taken care of that.”

“And the moodswings? The absences, the nightmares?”

He watches her, cautiously. “What about them?”

“How long have you had them?”

He looks away, teeth in his bottom lip. “Not sure. In a way, always. The way they’re now, that started – I don’t know, a year or two ago?”

She nods and scribbles it down. “Sexual history? Ready to talk about that?”

“Sure.”

“How many?”

He looks at the ceiling, apparently counting. “Men – thirteen, I think. And about eight girls. All just the one time.”

“Penetration?”

His lip turns up. “Really, Caro? You getting off on this?”

“If I’m getting all sweaty and flushed it’s probably just menopause,” she deadpans. “Well?”

“Yes, for the most part. Both bottoming and topping, and  _yes_ , I always use condoms. Even for blowjobs.”

“Well, that’s something at least.” She notes it down, goes to the next question, then stops when she spots Jimmy looking at her, rather intently.

“Something you want to share?” she asks, voice carefully neutral.

“Is there…” He hesitates. “I’m not sure if…”

She crosses her arms and leans back, eyes narrowed. She’s done this before, needling information out of people who didn’t even have the right vocabulary for these kind of things, let alone the will to share. She’s grown good at it.

“Did you come?” she asks, straight to the point.

He winces. “Most of the time.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

His eyes flare. “No.”

“Then why did you fuck more than twenty different people?”

“Means to an end. And curiosity. Do you think it’s got something to do with the… ” He waves his hand. “You know.”

“Libido is known to be affected by depressive episodes, but that’s not what this is, is it?”

He shakes his head.

“Were you…” She falters.

“Sexually abused?” He gives her a cool smile. “No.”

“But?”

“ _But_ , people tried, a few times. One time I remember my mother hitting a handsy client with her shoe – apparently made an impression on me, if I still remember. Must have been about three, four maybe. Then there was that priest, and that one man at the estate, oh, and a teacher. Fancy school, that one.”

“And you…”

“Realised what they were doing and shut them down before they could get anywhere.”

“Still, must have been… well,  _unnerving_ , to a child.”

He shrugs. “Hardly the worst thing I’ve seen.”

She looks down at her notes. God knows she’s seen far too much to be considered  _innocent_ by anyone, but…

But there’s something about Jimmy’s hard cruel cold cynicism that leaves her feeling like a child, toddling around and trying to hug strangers’ knees. Naïve. Young, even though she’s got a fair few decades on him.

“Well?” he asks, mocking again. “Prescribe me some Viagra and get it over with.”

She spreads her hands out on the table. “Look, Jimmy… It might just be stress. Performance anxiety, or worry, or any number of things. Lack of trust.”

That makes him laugh, hard and yelping. “Trust gets you  _killed_ ,” he says, still chuckling.

She suppresses a shiver. “Liking, then. Maybe it would go better with someone you consider more than just a – what was it? Means to an end?” She shrugs. “Or maybe it wouldn’t. Some people just don’t do sex, Jimmy, and that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”

He copies her shrug – she’s seen him do that before, picking up characteristics and quirks from her, mirroring. “There’s plenty wrong with me.”

She rubs her forehead, sighs. “Look, Jimmy, I – ”

“I think I like to hurt people.”

Her mouth shuts abruptly. Impossible to know if he’s saying that to shock her, or if it’s just the truth and he’s actually worrying about it.

She shuffles her files, trying to hide her discomfort.  _Christ_ , it’s like navigating a minefield. One wrong move and Jimmy will blow up, she’s sure of that, and Jimmy blowing up…

She shakes herself, falling back into her professional role. “There’s nothing wrong with that either,” she says, calmly.

He raises an eyebrow, obviously sceptical.

“No, really, sadism isn’t an inherently bad thing,” she says insistently. “It depends on how, and if, you act on it. Have you –  _hurt_ , people?”

“A few times,” he says, watching her very very carefully. “With their consent, or I stopped when they said no. It wasn’t… It wasn’t what I wanted, not exactly.”

“Then what is it you want?”

“If I knew that, I would’ve had it by now.”

“You don’t mess about, do you?”

“No.”

She leans back, considers him. “Does it bother you? Not having… whatever it is you’re looking for?”

“A bit. Not nearly as much as other things.” He smiles. “I suppose I’ll just have to live with it, is that it?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you were supposed to have all the answers?”

“No.”

He leans back in his chair, wood creaking. Mirroring again. “You’re no  _fun_ , Caroline. So serious all of a sudden, it’s getting boring.”

She shakes her head and goes back to her checklist. “Ever had any injuries?” she asks, ignoring his mocking look. “Broken bones, operations, that sort of thing?”

He smiles.

And her stomach turns and she doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to listen to the deliberately vague stories and Jimmy’s detached perversely entertained tone and all the things it implies. She  _doesn’t_.

But she has to. Who else would?

And Jimmy, eyes glittering, leans forward and says, “God, where to start?”

 

 

* * *

 

**III**

 

It’s like a cycle, in a way. Go long enough and she’ll convince herself of the need to  _go out_ ,  _be sociable_ , all that nonsense. After a certain amount of nights alone with her telly and a glass of wine, after a certain amount of nagging from Sandra and her colleagues, eventually her common sense and experience just apparently fucking  _give up_ and she will actually think the thought,  _maybe I should go out_.

She always remembers why it’s a such bad idea somewhere during the night out in question, but by then it’s already too late and her evening is ruined and she spends all her time trying to make up excuses to get back to her cosy comfortable  _quiet_ flat.

This time, she doesn’t even bother with excuses. She just says  _look, it’s been fun but I’m really not interested_ , then buggers off to find a cab, leaving the guy looking like she punched him in the face. But god, she really has no energy left to care about easily-bruised male egos.

She pays the cab driver and gets out, finally back at her own place. She has a headache. The pounding music, the cheap wine, or maybe it was just the guy’s annoying whinging but whatever it is, her head feels like it’s splitting.

And to top it all off, there’s someone waiting at her door. “Piss off,” she yells from the distance.

The figure doesn’t move, and when she comes closer she recognises Jimmy.

For some reason, she’s not really surprised.

“What the hell do you want?” she practically snarls. “Because trust me, I’m not in the mood for fucking games right now.”

He focuses on her, eyes wide. “Caro,” he says, and she promptly forgets all her irritation.

She grabs his shoulder and pulls him into the light, checking him over. Eyes wide, pupils enlarged, shaking and sweating and not quite focusing on her. “What did you take?” she asks, checking his pulse.

“Pills. Dunno.” He rubs his forehead. “Think it’s – I don’t know, amphetamines, speed, LSD, can’t stop, can’t  - ”

She unlocks her door and pushes him straight in. He stumbles on the carpet, has to steady himself on a table to avoid falling.

High. High as a fucking kite, and on a bad trip if she’s any judge. As if her evening wasn’t shit enough already.

She takes him straight to her bedroom, the only room in her place that isn’t flooded with stray books and clothes and other clutter, and sets him down on the bed. “Alright, love,” she says, calm and steady, down on her knees in front of him. “Talk to me.”

“It’s not real,” he mutters. “I know that, it’s not real, I’m tripping, it’s not real…” He throws off her hands and gets up, starts pacing. “I need to be somewhere safe,” he says, glancing at her. “I’m –  _It’s not fucking real_ but I can’t shake the feeling, and I just need…” He breathes in, shakily.

“You are safe here, love. No one can get you here.” She stands up and carefully reaches out to touch, but he jumps away, skittish, frightened. “What you’re feeling now,” she says instead, “it’s going to stop once the drugs have stopped working, alright? It’s – ”

“I  _know_ that.” He tips his head back, eyes closed. “My mind playing tricks on me, Christ, didn’t I have enough of that already?” His eyes snap open, then focus on her. “Why are you still here?”

“Because it’s my sodding bedroom,” she says, a little miffed.

“Out.”

“Jimmy, you need to – “

“ _Out_ ,” he roars, and she stumbles back out of the room and closes the door behind her, heart hammering.

Little shit.

***

It takes several hours before Jimmy is himself again, and all the while Caroline waits, locked out of her own bedroom, her anger slowly growing. It’s the entitlement that rankles the most, the way he marched down here as if he owned the place, as if he was absolutely sure he’d…

But. Well. That’s what she offers him, isn’t it? Reliable and always-available support, whenever he needs it. Does she really have the right to be upset with him, just because he took her up on her offer?

On the other hand, he could have at least been  _polite_ about it. And drugs, of all things…

“What were you thinking?” she asks sharply.

Jimmy looks out of the window, cigarette jammed firmly in the corner of his mouth, and doesn’t reply. The bad trip has taken its toll. Even though he’s finally clearheaded again, he looks deathly pale, utterly exhausted.

“Seriously, you  _know_ you’re mentally unstable, that drugs are the worst possible idea, and still you go and take some unidentified pills from someone you’ve never met before? Were you  _trying_ to get killed?”

He glances at her. “Maybe.”

She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.

He smiles, tired and small. “I was desperate. I thought, well, why not? Maybe it’ll help. Obviously I’ve learnt my lesson now,” he adds, in a sickeningly childish sneering tone.

“I just – ” She sighs. “Why can’t you stay out of trouble?”

He blows out smoke. “Do you want the reasons in alphabetical order or in order of importance?”

“ _Jimmy.”_

He turns to look at her, still with that air of emotionally-detached superiority. “I appreciate what you did for me, Caroline. But I don’t need you mollycoddling me. Understood?”

“I’ll stop nagging you if you stop doing stupid fucking things.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up in a small smile and he turns back to the window.

He looks older, again. It’s amazing how he can do that, add and detract years just by the look in his eyes, the way he holds his shoulders.

She clears her throat. “Anyway. How are you doing? I mean, apart from the bad trip.”

“Alright,” he says cautiously.

“Have a place to sleep?”

“Several, in fact.” He taps ash off his cigarette. “Not entirely legal, but I won’t be without a bed anytime soon. Or food, for that matter.”

“Good. Sex life?”

“Non-existent.” He gives her a smile. “Less bother.”

“Drugs apart from tonight?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. No alcohol either – well, not to the level of getting seriously drunk.”

“Anything else I should know? Health issues? Been abroad?”

“Nope. Didn’t even leave London.”

She reaches for his packet of cigarettes and pulls one out. “Light?”

He smiles, amused, and gets out his lighter without his eyes leaving her. “Bad habits, doctor? Feeling stressed?”

“I deserve one.” She inhales deeply and closes her eyes at the calming wave of nicotine. “Christ, I missed this,” she mutters.

Jimmy chuckles.

“Anyway, you should probably quit.” She gestures at his chest. “I’m not too enthusiastic about your lung capacity, to be honest.”

“Anything you  _are_ enthusiastic about when it concerns me, doctor?”

She blows out smoke and gives him a look. “Angling for reassurance?”

He huffs a laugh. “God, you don’t pull your punches, do you? But that’s alright.” He smiles again. “I prefer my punches honest.”

“Glad to hear I satisfy your preferences,” she says sarcastically.

“Oh, you always did, Caro.”

And suddenly her hostility flares up again, at his superiority and his control and the way he simply  _doesn’t seem to care_.

“I’m not here for your fucking  _entertainment_ ,” she snaps at him.

Jimmy smiles, amused and unaffected. “Bad day at the office, was it? Feeling a bit tetchy?”

She grits her teeth and turns away, takes a deep drag, fighting her anger. It doesn’t help, getting angry. He’s doing it on purpose, getting a rise out of her, it’s what he wants, what’s familiar to him –

And that thought is enough to drain all the fury away.

“Ah,” Jimmy says, softly. “There it is again. The pity. Think I prefer the anger, actually.”

“Not your decision, is it?” She looks up at him. “And it’s not pity, it’s compassion.”

He takes another drag, in silence, eyes on her. Calm, guarded.

She rolls her eyes. “Look, love. Just now? You needed a safe space, and you came straight here. That  _means_ something. So stop acting like I’m a threat to you.”

He grins, sharp and fast. “Old habits die hard, Caro.”

“Get rid of them. You can do it, you’re tenacious.”

“I am.” He leans back on the banister, drags from his cigarette and looks up, at the few stars you can still see in London’s sky. “I didn’t even hesitate, you know. Didn’t consider other possibilities. Just came straight here, to you.”

_I doubt you’re his chosen one_

“Does that bother you?” she asks, carefully.

“A little. But I don’t see any alternative.”

“And you hate admitting it.”

Silence.

“You’re staying over for the rest of the night, then?” she asks.

He gives her another look. Not mocking, this time, more gauging, measuring. Then he nods and stubs his cigarette out on her window sill. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“You don’t have to.”

He looks up, eyebrows raised. Surprised.

“Selfish reasons.” She smiles, crookedly. “The company might do me good. You know, male company I don’t want to brain the second they open their mouth.”

He smirks. “I thought you weren’t into me like that?”

“I’m  _not_ , you smug little shit. A woman can enjoy a man’s company for other reasons than sex, you know.”

“Can she? That’s news.” He tilts his head. “Who did you want to brain, then?”

“My date.”

“You had a  _date_?” he asks, and she can’t tell whether that’s genuine surprise, or amusement, or even discomfort.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, it won’t be repeat performance. He was a dick.”

“Most men are.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and goes back in. “Thought you’d be old enough to have realised that by now.”

“Ah, well. I’m an optimist that way. Always looking for that one exception.”

He pauses mid-step, then turns and looks at her.

“What?” she says, surprised.

“It goes both ways, doesn't it?” he says, softly. 

She frowns, completely at a loss. “What does?” 

But he shakes his head and leaves for the bedroom, without another word.

***

Next morning she finds Jim’s bed empty, made, and with a little note on top saying, simply,  _thanks_.

 

 

* * *

 

**IV**

 

It's been ages since she last had sex.

Partly choice, partly circumstances, 'cause yeah, she likes a good shag every now and then, but not enough to go through the whole tedious process of flirting and first dates and weeding out all the arseholes and the bores until she finally finds someone palatable enough for the night. She can manage perfectly fine without sex. No one ever died from a frustrated libido.

Doesn't mean that if the opportunity falls into her lap, she's going to say no. Especially when said opportunity comes in the attractive and familiar packaging of an ex who not only knows exactly what she likes, but also understands the idea of  _no strings attached_. 

Out of all her exes, Mark is probably her favourite.

She closes her eyes and snuggles into the sheets, sinking deeper into that pleasant state between waking and dreaming, mind a cloud of post-coital fluff and body relishing in the warmth and the weight of an arm around her...

Then the phone starts ringing, forcing her harshly into full consciousness.

Next to her, Mark groans and rolls over. “Who the  _hell_ calls at this time of night?”

“I’m a doctor, love, that sort of thing happens.” She sits up, rubs her eyes.

“Don’t we have hospitals for that?”

She puts on her robe and slippers. “For some. Go back to sleep, I’ll see what it is.”

The phone is still ringing when she gets to the hallway, an insistent annoying thrill boring its way into her slightly hungover head. She glares at it, but it refuses to shut up. So she picks up.

“Yes?” she says curtly into the receiver.

Nothing but the sound of quiet, raspy breathing.

She sighs. “If this is perv call I swear to god – ”

“Caro,” a voice croaks.

Jimmy.

She takes a deep breath. “Are you hurt?”

He laughs, a horrific-sounding wet laugh that breaks off halfway into violent cough. “Yeah,” he says, voice choked. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“Yeah.”

“Severely? Try to put pressure on it. Is there anyone there with you?”

There are a few scratchy noises, a thump, and then Jimmy’s voice comes back. “Just you.”

“Right. Where are you?”

“Dunno. Can’t think.” A crackling puff of breath down the receiver, and then, in an oddly sing-song tone, “Caro, Caroline, I need you.”

“I know, love. Where are you? Look around, what do you see?”

A moment of pause, and then, “St Paul’s. Close by.”

“Good. Stay there – ”

He laughs again. “No worries there.”         

“Stay there, and I’ll be with you as soon as I can. And try to keep awake, okay? Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep.”

“Won’t.”

She puts the phone down and rushes back to the bedroom. Mark sits up, alarmed, as she slams the door open. “What’s wrong?”

“Friend in need.” She struggles into her jeans. “Do you mind clearing off?”

“ _Now?_  It’s four AM.”

“I know, love, but this friend, he’s the twitchy type. He doesn’t like being around strangers.”

“Caroline.” He takes her wrist, stopping her halfway to her shoe. “What’s going on?”

She straightens up, sighs, runs a hand through her hair. “He’s a friend. And he’s hurt – severely, I think – and he refuses to go to hospitals. So what choice do I have?”

“Call in an ambulance anyway?”

She shakes her head. “He would never forgive me. Look, I’m sorry, but…”

“It’s fine.” He gets out of bed. “I’m just – worried about you, Caroline. I honestly don’t mind getting kicked out in the middle of night, but if you’re involved in something dangerous…”

“No.” She pulls her shoes on and gives him a quick reassuring peck on the lips. “He wouldn’t let me come if it was dangerous.” 

***

At this time of night – too late for the clubbers, too early for the commuters - the streets are eerily empty, only drunks and junkies about, a few street kids. And Jimmy, somewhere, if only she could find him.

She drives down Cheapside, trying to suppress her panic with increasingly less success. She’s good with crises, it’s what makes her a good A&E doctor, what’s helped her through dozens of sticky situations, but this?

She pulls up next to another phone booth and checks the area. No one around, but the phone booth’s windows have fogged up a little. She yanks the door open –

And there he is.

“Hi,” Jimmy says, through split bloodied lips, dark eyes barely visible inside his puffed-up bruised eye sockets.

She staggers, holds on to the side of the booth to keep her balance.

He grins at her. He’s missing a tooth.

Calm. She can do this. He needs her.

She goes down on her knee and puts her fingers on his pulse. “Where is it hurting?”

He gives a pained-sounding hiccough of a laugh. “Everywhere.”

“Jimmy – ”

“Ribs, left leg.” He breathes in deeply, closes his eyes.

“Alright. You need to stay awake, alright?” She reaches out to tap his cheek, then stops.

Even his cheekbone is broken.

She wipes at her eyes, then pulls his shirt up and checks his ribcage. Even though she’s being as careful as she can, he still hisses at the pain.

And his leg…

“You need a hospital,” she says flatly, looking at the snapped bone.

“No.”

“Jimmy, you’re – ”

“ _No_.”

“Fine.” She gets her case open and starts on a splint. Her hands are still steady, thank god, because she doesn’t  _feel_ steady anymore. Sure, one part of her mind is still busy doing the triage stuff –  _broken leg cracked rib possible concussion_ – but another part is genuinely panicking.

She’s never had to do this on her own before, outside of the hospital, without backup.

“How’s your vision?” she asks, still in her brisk doctor voice.

“Blurry. I’m – I can’t… Caro?” He waves his hand and she takes it. He moves his other hand too, but it’s broken, wrist swollen and two of his fingers sticking out at an unnatural angle.

Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t lose your cool.

“Does it hurt, here?” She presses down on the left side of his chest and he doubles over in pain.

“Shit,” she mutters, rummaging through her bag for a needle. “Shit, shit,  _shit_.” She punctures the skin at his abdomen, draws the plunger back – no blood. “Thank fuck. Okay, I’m – Jimmy?” He blinks, focuses blearily on her. “I think your spleen’s ruptured,” she says. “Did someone kick you in the left side, or hit you?”

He nods.

“Right, so that’s – and then there’s the leg, and your – your wrist, and your ribs…” She breathes out again. Steady. “You  _need_ a fucking hospital. You could be bleeding to death internally, I can’t – ”

“My decision,” he says. And how the hell can he still sound so calm when he’s concussed and losing blood and in a fuckload of pain,  _how_?

“You’re going to die if I don’t – ”

“Don’t care. No hospitals.”

“You could fucking  _die_.”

He shakes his head. “No hospitals.”

He would never forgive her.

She swallows. “I’ll – I’ll do my best. Let’s get you home, first, shall we?”

“Home.” He grins again, that horrific blood-soaked butcher’s smile. “That’s a funny one.”

She feels like throwing up.

***

He’s a mess.

In the light of her bedroom, against her off-white sheets, he looks obscene, all cracked bones and crusty blood and vivid bruises. It’s hard to stop seeing him as a person, to step into the specific mindset needed for situations like this, where she can see someone’s body as merely a collection of problems to be solved. She keeps hearing the way he laughed, choked and wet and desperate, and the way he said her name – but it’s distracting and he fucking needs her so she’d better man up and get to it.

She runs the tap, fills a bowl with water and starts cleaning him up.

She has to change the water more than a dozen times.

His rib feels cracked, rather than fully broken, but she can’t be sure without a scan. Same with his spleen – ruptured, if it hurts that badly, but how serious it is, if he needs surgery… Christ, he won’t expect her to operate on him here, would he?

She realigns his broken nose, makes sure his leg is immobilised and safe, bandages his wrist and hand. His shoulder is dislocated. She should probably take care of that as well.

Her gloves are slippery with blood.

She takes another deep breath and sits down again on the edge of the bed, then takes Jimmy’s upper arm and shoulder. “This is going to hurt.”

“Oh, is it? I would never have guessed.” He swallows. “Can you – can you give me something to bite down on? I don’t want to scream.”

She gets him a rolled-up washcloth. He takes it from her with a quiet  _thanks_ , then peers at her a little more closely. “Are you  _crying,_  Caro?”

“Put that between your teeth, I haven’t got all day.” And if her voice sounds a bit thick, well, she can blame that on the late hour.

He bites down and gives her a nod. She yanks the bone back into place.

He does scream, despite his resolve, and that it’s muffled by the washcloth only makes it worse, somehow.

***

It takes a long time before she’s finished, before all the wounds and fractures have been taken care of. By the end of it she’s shaking just as much as she had the first night she interned at A&E. It’s the same feeling, washed-out adrenaline making her nauseous, her hands trembling despite the absolute dire need to keep them steady, and beyond that the constant terror of having missed something, forgotten something, of overseeing a potentially mortal wound and someone ending up dead on her watch.

A hot shower helps. A cup of tea helps. A quick reassuring talk on the phone with Mark helps a lot, in terms of calming down her nerves, connecting her back to the rest of the world. But when she comes back into the bedroom she still feels shit.

Not, of course, as shit as Jimmy.

She sits down next to him and strokes hair away from his face. He opens his eyes, immediately focusing on her.

“How are you?” she asks gently.

He closes his eyes again. “Bad.”

She checks his injuries, reapplies some blood-crusty bandages. She can't stop her fingers shaking, which hardly ever happens to her, not while she's working, but…

But this isn’t exactly a  _normal_ situation, is it?

“I fucked up,” Jimmy mumbles.

“Shush,” she says absently, refastening a loose bit of bandage.

“I made a mistake.” He turns to her, unseeing. “Miscalculated.”

“Jimmy,  _shush_.”

“There was rain, see,” he says, hurried, feverish, as if he wants to make sure it’s all out before he falls asleep again. “I forgot about the rain, and I couldn’t see, so I came closer than I should and they spotted me.” He licks his lips. “Thought I was a spy – well, I was, just – just not the way they thought. But I couldn’t, they didn’t believe me. I don’t even think they wanted to kill me but they – ”

His breathing is speeding up, the fingers of his good hand twitching. She takes it. “Jimmy, seriously, just shut up.”

He looks up at her, eyes fever-bright. “I  _hate_ this. I hate that they can do this to me.”

“I know, love.” She carefully puts two fingers underneath his chin and tilts his face to hers. “Are you listening? I need you to concentrate.”

He nods, face pale with pain.

“I won’t lie to you. There’s a risk of you dying. I haven’t got the proper equipment here. If you’re bleeding internally there’s nothing I can do. A hospital is the only safe place for you right now.” She ducks her head, looking a bit more closely. “Do you understand?”

“I can’t go to the hospital,” he says weakly.

“Why?”

“Because I can’t.”

“ _Why_?”

He winces. “I’m wanted. If I go to a hospital, they’ll call the police, and I’m – I’m still in the system, I haven’t got… I still need to get in there. And I…” He breathes in, face briefly going twisted. “I’ll get convicted, sent to prison, and if I’m in prison I’m  _dead_. See, Caro?” He smiles, strained, forced. “Taking me to the hospital would mean killing me, a whole lot nastier than keeping me here could do. Can your conscience handle that?”

“Jimmy…”

“Caro. Please.” He squeezes his eyes shut, breath coming in short sharp bursts. “It hurts.”

She gets him a painkiller. Whenever she used to offer him those before – all those times he showed up on her doorstep beaten up or sick or hurt – he’d always refused out of principle, but now he swallows it down eagerly.

She sits with him, hand on his arm, watches the drugs take effect. He relaxes a little, that horrible grey colour disappearing from his face.

“Am I… where am I again?” he asks after a bit.

“You’re at my place,” Caroline says. “In my bedroom.”

“Caro.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m… Good.” He closes his eyes, breathes out. “Stay close,” he mumbles.

“I will.” She strokes his forehead, then takes his arm again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

She falls asleep somewhere after dawn, propped up in her chair, eyes focused on Jimmy until the last possible moment. 

When she wakes up again – startled from sleep by a lorry’s loud horn –  it takes her a moment to realise where she is, why her back is aching, why she didn't go to her bedroom - and then it hits her.

Jimmy.

She gets up and goes to the person-shaped lump in her bed. For one moment she’s absolutely convinced she’s going to find him dead, died in his sleep while she was busy napping. Guilt kicks her in the stomach and her fingers are trembling, ‘cause if she made the wrong choice, if he’s dead because of her…

But he isn’t. His breathing is a bit shallow and he looks deathly pale, but he’s still alive.

She sits down heavily on the side of the bed and runs her hand through her hair. It’s  _absurd_ , what she’s doing. Never mind his wishes, he’s in no shape to be taken care of here. She should’ve rung the ambulance straight away, because he’s her responsibility now, and Jesus, what the fuck will she do if he dies?

He moans, quietly, eyebrows furrowed. She strokes his sweaty hair away from his forehead and the frown eases up a little.

She needs new painkillers. Blood, preferably, with the amount he’s lost. Supplies to make a decent cast for his leg. The kind of things you can’t just get from your local chemist’s.

Is she really contemplating robbing her own hospital?

Jimmy stirs. He blinks, pushes at one of the bandages.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Better. Slightly.” He focuses on her. “But weak as a kitten. And…” He swallows, lips going thin.

Caroline broke her leg once, back when she was a teenager and really into horseback riding. She still remembers vividly how much it hurt. And, right now, for Jimmy, that’s just one hurt of many.

How the hell is he still this lucid when he’s got all that going on?

“I need to go away for a bit,” she says. “Get some things. I’d call someone to keep you company, but – ”

“No.” Immediate, slightly panicked.

“Yeah, thought as much.” She touches his shoulder. “Will you be alright?”

“No. But I’ll manage. I think.” He runs his tongue over his dry split lips. “This isn’t my first time, Caro.”

 _First time what_ , she almost asks, but there’s something in Jimmy’s eyes, something  _dead_ , and she gets this sense of a deep dark chasm gaping just beneath her feet, and if she goes further, if she falls in…

So she leaves it. And if that makes her a coward, well, she never claimed to be brave.

“I’ll hurry,” she says, and leaves feeling his eyes on the back of her neck.

***

“Where the hell have you been?”

Caroline jumps about a foot in surprise. “Christ, Lisa,” she says, clutching her chest. “Give a girl some warning.”

“Girl.” Lisa snorts. “And what are you doing sneaking around like a thief in the night?” She reaches out as if to touch and Caroline turns away, hiding her stash from view, but one box falls out.

They stare down at it.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Caroline says, a bit weakly.

“I hope not, because what it _looks like_ is that you’re stealing meds from the hospital’s supplies.” Lisa looks up. “But you wouldn’t do anything as stupid as that, would you?”

She gives Lisa a look. Her first instinct is to lie, to somehow weasel her way out of this, but… They’ve been colleagues for years. Lisa deserves some honesty, even if it risks…

Well, what the hell else is she supposed to do, murder her and bury her corpse in the courtyard?

“Well, I am stealing,” Caroline admits. “But it’s for a good cause.”

Lisa sighs and runs a hand over her eyes. “ _Please_ tell me this isn’t about your homeless kid.”

“It is. But it isn’t – ”

“You realise he’s probably just going to sell these the second you turn your back and go buy some heroin or booze with the profits?”

“He won’t,” Caroline says. Lisa huffs but Caroline shakes her head. “No, trust me, I’ve seen him, he won’t sell these. Come on, Lisa. Do you really think I’d get taken in by some street kid’s charm? That I’ve suddenly turned naïve?”

“I don’t know what to think, to be honest.” Lisa bends down and picks up the box of painkillers. “You want me to cover for you?”

“I want you not to mention anything about this. If it comes out, I’ll deal with it. I don’t need you to lie for me, just – ”

“Shut up for you.”

“Yeah.” She takes the box back. “Sorry.”

Lisa sighs. “And I guess you’re not coming into work today either? You know that’ll cause trouble.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m thinking about quitting.”

She hadn’t, actually. Not unless you counted those musings in the small hours, the couple – alright, more like  _many_ – times she got fed-up with the constant admin and the endless hours and the bloody finances. She hadn’t actually properly considered quitting her job, going through with it.

Not until now.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Lisa says, shaking her head. “Is this a midlife crisis? The female equivalent of a Harley? Honestly, what would you do?”

“Go back to a general practice,” she says, trying out the words.

“You  _hated_ GP’ing. You spent five bloody years retraining, you aren’t seriously going to throw that all away on a whim?”

“Maybe.” She hoists her stash up. “Like I said, it’s just – I’m considering it.”

“Well, stop. And don’t steal stuff again or I will bloody well report you, got that?”

“Thanks, love.”

Lisa huffs and turns on her heel. Caroline watches her go.

Once Lisa is out of sight, she goes back to the shelves to pilfer some bandages.

***

When she comes back Jimmy is lying unmoving on the bed, eyes closed, deathly pale, and once again she gets that nauseating kick-in-the-stomach feeling. It’s not that death scares her; she’s seen plenty of dead bodies, seen plenty of her patients die in front of her.

Just not in her own bed.

Then his chest moves and he makes a quiet sound and she relaxes.  She steps into the room and dumps her stolen kit on the desk.

“Caro?” he asks, voice hoarse and weak.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” He opens his eyes. He’s sweating, a subtle tremble running through him, eyes huge and dark.

“Right, let’s take care of that, shall we?” She starts setting up the IV equipment next to the bed. “Blood transfusion. I’m assuming you don’t have any problems with needles?”

“No.” He leans his head back against the pillows and closes his eyes. He’s shaking with pain, with exhaustion, and every medical instinct she has is screaming at her just to get him to a hospital, have him properly cared for.

But that’s not an option.

She sits down on the edge of the bed and rolls up his sleeve. His veins are clearly visible beneath his pale skin, easy enough to find. She puts on her gloves, disinfects his arm, and ties on a tourniquet.

“Ready?”

He opens his eyes and gives her a wan smile. “Might as well.”

She injects, inserts the catheter and carefully pulls the needle back. “There.”

“That’s it?” he asks, looking down at his arm.

“Yeah.” She tapes the tube down. “It’ll be about two hours. Tell me if you need the bathroom, I’ll help you move.”

“Just – blood? A transfusion, nothing more?”

“Pretty much. I'll try and put a cast on your wrist and leg later, but apart from that... Pain management, lots of rest. I can’t steal a CT scanner so I’m just going on a wing and a prayer here, but the blood transfusion was the main thing, really.”

“Yeah.” His eyes drift to the stand, the blood bag hanging off it. “O negative,” he drawls. “How did you know?”

“You told me,” she says. “When I put together your file. It was one of the few medical details you did know. Remember?”

“No.” He sits up a little, still watching the blood run through the IV. “No, wait. Yes. It was – ” He stops himself.

She gives him a look, but he doesn’t continue.

“Rare, isn’t it?” he says after a moment.

“O negative? Relatively. About ten percent of the general population has it, if I recall correctly.”

“Yeah. Me mam had a different one, you know. B positive. Meaning I must have the same blood type as my – as my father.”

She looks up, doesn’t reply.

“I – I kept, I kept hoping that there would be something rare about me. Some – genetic trait. I’d be brought into hospital and they’d go searching in their databases and find my father and call him up, and there he’d be, with his son.” He closes his eyes. “It’s odd, I never even tried to imagine what he’d look like. Couldn’t. It’s – I’m  _brilliant_ at imagining things, I really am, but this I couldn’t manage. This one man. One stupid ordinary man. Or maybe not.”

Caroline carefully adjusts the bandages around Jimmy’s wrist. He barely seems to notice, too focused on whatever’s going on inside his head.

“Then I got into mythology,” he continues. “Leda and the swan, the immaculate conception… Seemed to fit. Better an invisible perfect father than an existing imperfect one. I’m talking too much.” He licks his lips. “Ears shut, Caroline. This is not meant for you.”

“I know.” She gets up.

“You’re going to get into tro-ouble,” he says, sings. “Stealing blood from the hospital, that’s not what good girls do, Caro.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“They’ll sack you.” He closes his eyes. “They’ll sack you, and then where will you be? A doctor without a hospital, that’s like a- a… I can’t think of anything. A fish without water. A cat without paws.”

“I can start a practice.”

“As A&E doctor?”

“As GP.”

He opens one eye, catlike. “Don’t you need training for that? Going back to school, then, are you?”

“No-o.” She discards the empty blood bag. “I already did my training. I started out as a GP, did one year of it, decided it wasn’t for me and retrained as A&E. So now I’m just going back to what I know.”

“A practice.” He licks his lips, eyes falling closed again. “Good idea. Really, good – ” He yawns. “Useful.”

She tucks him in and pulls up a chair. “Go to sleep, Jimmy.”

He closes his eyes, sinks down a little, and slowly his breathing evens out.

***

He wakes up screaming.

It’s not even a loud scream. It’s the kind of yell of someone who’s learned to be quiet, forced to keep his silence at all times. It’s horrible to hear.

His face is twisted in pain, eyes squeezed shut. “It isn’t – isn’t  _fair_ ,” he wheezes. “Why can’t it just stop for once, why can’t I – ” He slams the palm of his good hand against his forehead, as if he wants to beat his own mind into submission.

She pulls his hand away. “I can give you a sedative.”

“No, that just makes it worse.” He reaches out blindly. She shuffles closer, and then suddenly he’s in her arms, head pressed against her chest.

She makes an unlikely mother figure, but Jimmy makes an even more unlikely child and yet here they are, with him sobbing dryly against her chest and her arms around him.

She strokes his hair, by lack of anything better to do, thinks of El and her great heaving sad child-sobs and compares that to this cramped restrained breaking down and almost starts crying herself.

She never wanted this. She didn’t have any pressing need to see the sewage of the world, the essence of everything that’s wrong with people all rolled up into one fragile dark-haired package. She was cynical enough on her own, she’d seen enough petty cruelty and dark sides and ugliness to lose all faith in humanity a long time ago, she didn’t need this walking talking sobbing  _reminder_.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Jimmy's shoulders shake with sobs he just can’t keep in, no matter how hard he tries, and a quiet keen comes from somewhere deep in his chest and it’s  _not fair_.

It’s not fair.

***

Eventually he calms down a little and she tucks him back under the sheets.

If he does survive this, he’s probably going to kill her then burn her body for good measure.

***

It takes a surprising amount of time until the hospital rings. It’s an official call, not her head of department but an HR bloke, muttering words like  _unprofessional conduct_ and  _patterns of unexplained absences_  and a lot of other bullshit.

Then they drop the bomb. Some morphine and blood bags have gone missing, they say, does she have anything to do with that?

In return she makes a few vague allusions to the low-key fraud they’ve been committing, the numbers they’ve been manipulating and a resident who’s been operating drunk and all the medical failures they’ve been told to hush up.

There’s a moment of silence after that, followed by a proposal for a lay-off package. It’s quite generous, given that she’s been stealing from them.

Blackmail. Who’d have thought she had it in her?

She puts her phone down and breathes out. Bridges burnt. Die cast.

Lisa is going to be so pissed off.

She goes back to the bedroom. Jimmy is sitting up, ladling porridge into his mouth at a rapid pace at odds with his expression of disgust. His bruises have mostly faded, and the colour is coming back to his cheeks. He won’t be needing to stay much longer – which is good, because along with his health Jimmy has been recovering his scathing temper.

“This tastes like cardboard,” he complains in between bites. “Cardboard soaked in milk. With too much salt. Where the  _hell_ did you learn to cook?”

“Five-star restaurant spoiled you, did it?”

He gives her a dark look. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve eaten nicer-tasting food out of fucking  _bins_.”

“Back to insults, are we?” she says drily. “You must be getting better.”

“Hmm. I can actually breathe without starting to cry now, that’s definitely an improvement.” He puts the empty bowl aside and leans back against the pillows, hands behind his head, eyes sharp and focused on her. “Who’s the boyfriend?”

She almost drops her thermometer. “Sorry?”

He nods at the bathroom, a small mocking smile on his face. “Used condoms in the bin, extra toothbrush on the sink. Surprised you forgot to erase the traces – or don’t you care?”

“He’s not a boyfriend,” she says. “He’s just… a mate whom I happen to fuck every once in a while.”

He tilts his head, smiles. “Isn’t that the definition of a boyfriend?”

“It  _isn’t_ ,” she says pointedly. She puts the thermometer beneath his arm and starts changing the bandages. “You’re healing up nicely.”

“Had a lot of experience with that. Speaking of, do you know a good dentist?” He prods at the hole where his tooth used to be.

“I’ll give you a name when you leave.”

“Ah,” he says. “About that.”

She takes the thermometer back – normal temperature, good. “Leaving?”

“Yeah. When can I?”

“Depends. Now, if you want.” She leans back, studies him. “I can get you a wheelchair. The brace on your leg still needs to stay on for a good few weeks, but your wrist has healed up enough for you to use it again. You’re healthy enough to go.” She pauses, then adds, “ _Physically_.”

He looks down, fingers picking at the bandages on his hand.

“Or you could stay,” she says. “I don’t mind.”

“I thought you said you didn’t do – what was it?  _Indefinite free lodgings?_ ”

“Extenuating circumstances. Honestly, Jimmy, stay, if that makes you feel more – ”

He looks up sharply. “More  _what_?”

“Safe.”

His lip curls. “Good Samaritan. This’ll feed your ego for years to come, won’t it?”

She bites back her sharp reply – a kid, he’s just a kid – and sits back on the bed. “I’m just offering you the options – ”

“I’m  _aware_ of the options, I only lost a tooth, not my whole fucking brain.” He pushes up, face going tight with pain. “Get me that wheelchair. I’m tired of being here, depending on – I’m tired of  _you_.”

“Right,” she says.

“I’m sure you don’t actually want me out, of course,” he continues, his eyes fixed on her. “Must be great, having only one patient to focus on, one who’s appropriately grateful – especially now your hospital’s dumped you. Enjoying your little fantasy world, Caro? Feeling important, playing lord of your own little kingdom? Does it make you wet?”

“Jimmy – ”

“Sure you’re going to manage without me to make you feel needed?” he continues. “Or, oh, right, I get it. That’s what the not-boyfriend’s for, isn’t he? Fine, then I’ll get out of your hair and you can have all the commitment-avoiding sex you – ”

“ _You_  called  _me_ , remember?” she snaps. “You  _asked_ for me, Christ, I should’ve never – ” She breaks off.

“Go ahead.” He smiles. “Say it. It’s not going to be the first time.”

“Really?” she says sarcastically. “Ever wonder why that is?”

“My fault, is it?” he says, and his eyes narrow a little, and there’s something cold and dangerous about him.

Don’t get pulled in.

“You don’t have to leave,” she forces herself to stay.

“I  _want_  to leave.”

“Then you leave,” she says, calmly. “It’s your decision.”

Something flickers across his face, gone before she can decipher it.

“I want to leave,” he repeats, with a little less heat this time.

“Sure.” She stands up and squeezes his hand.  “Whatever you want.”

He looks away, frowning as if she hit him.

***

She gets him his chair, and a set of new clothes and a whole stash of medication for him to take with, along with a comprehensive list of instructions of what he should and shouldn’t do and when he should -  _immediately, without hesitation, I mean it Jimmy –_ call her up again.

She still doesn’t really want him to go. He’s still too brittle, in too much pain. Not the physical kind, she doesn’t worry too much about that, but –

He cried. He buried himself in her arms and he cried and she held him, and whether he remembers that or not, it still happened. And the idea he could cry like that again without anyone being there…

“Stop worrying,” he says irritably. “I’ve survived far worse.”

“I’d like it better if you did more than just  _surviving_.”

He tests the wheels on his chair. “Survival is all there is, Caroline, don’t be naïve now. How does this fucking thing  _work_?”

“Hands on the discs, not the wheels. Brakes are those tiny blocks –  _gently_ , you don’t want to fly out.”

She helps him adjust the footrests, watches him turn and brake until she’s sure he’s got the hang of it. Only then does she hand him his coat.

“Right,” she says. “Now don’t overdo it. Seriously, it’s murder on your shoulders, and your wrist is still fragile. Just ask for help.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says absently, as he tries to navigate his chair over the threshold at her front door.

Not a chance he’ll ask for any assistance.

He finally gets his chair out on the pavement. “Bye, then,” he says, casually, as if he did nothing more than just drop by for an afternoon chat, as if the last two weeks haven’t happened.

“Bye.” She stays at the door, hand on the doorknob. “Jimmy?”

“What?” He looks up at her, amused and cynical and detached.

She catches a sigh.

“Just take care of yourself.”

 

 

* * *

 

**V**

 

The upstairs neighbours are at it again.

Caroline sighs and turns up the radio, in an idle attempt to drown out the groans and screams – fake, no one actually screams like that – and the odd thumping noise that’s accompanying them. She’s got the kind of imagination that can’t hear those noises without conjuring up matching images, and it’s disturbing.

Who the hell has sex at six in the morning anyway?

Maybe she should’ve moved out of London after all, started somewhere else. This place is already straining the upper limits of her budget and she’s going to go mad if she stays here, with the wafer-thin walls and the lift permanently out of order and the faucets that without fail spout rust for a minute before clearing to water.

But no, she just  _had_  to stay in the city, hadn’t she? Fuck knows why, it’s not like she goes out anymore.

She returns to her post. Another bill to be classified, then something from the bank. She tears the envelope open and pulls out the bank statement.

She blinks. Looks again.

Turns the page around, then back.

Blinks again.

She stares at the figures and words until they start going fuzzy, but still they stay the same. Just an account number, no name. No comments aside from an enigmatic  _for services rendered_. And then the amount.

450.000 pounds.

Absurdly, she laughs. It sounds creepy and she forces herself to stop almost immediately.

Half a million. Half a million fucking quid on her bank account with nothing to explain it by and  _Christ_ , why isn’t the police at her door already?

But she knows the answer to that, doesn’t she? As she knows the meaning of  _for services rendered_.

Cheeky bastard.

She sighs and puts the bank statement away. Worries for later, when she’s let it sink in; for now, she has patients to see.

***

She isn’t surprised, really, when a couple of weeks later she opens the door to her flat to find him sitting at her dinner table.

She  _is_ , however, surprised by how well he looks. No torn jeans or ratty t-shirts or battered jackets; he’s in a suit, expertly fitted and expensive-looking. He’s filled out as well, straightened up – no longer the spitting young alley cat.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she says.

“Hello to you too.” He gives her a little wave, then raises a bottle of wine. “Drink?”

“No, seriously, what the  _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

“Paying you,” he says, unconcerned. He pours a glass and holds it out to her. She doesn’t take it.

“I get my wages from the NHS,” she says. “Not from anonymous cheques, and  _definitely_ not half a bloody million.”

He frowns, irritated. “It’s not like you can’t use it, so – ”

“Where does it come from? The money?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you ask the NHS that as well?”

“The NHS doesn’t pay me insane fucking amounts of dubious cash.”

“The NHS isn’t fucking insane.”

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t bloody start that shite with me.”

“Sit down, then.”

She does, then snatches the glass from Jimmy’s hand and drinks deep.

“Why did you move?” he asks.

“Because I couldn’t afford the rent.”

“And now you can,” he says, opening his arms like a magician announcing a trick. “I really don’t see what the problem is, you know.”

“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t.” She runs her hand over her face. “Just – Jesus, Jimmy, what if my finances get checked?”

“They won’t.”

“Easy for you to say, isn’t it? How do you explain five hundred thousand bloody quid suddenly appearing on your bank account? I risk my fucking job, if they – ”

“Caroline,” he says, calm, patient. “They won’t.”

“What, you wormed your way into Revenue and Customs, have you?”

“Yes,” he says, smiling.

Caroline drinks again. The wine doesn’t really help, but at least it gives her something else to do than fidget.

“I won’t touch it, you know,” she says.

Jimmy shrugs. “It’s your money now. I don’t particularly care if you never spend a penny of it, or invest it all in your new practice. Go to Vegas and put it all on red, for all I care.”

“So half a million is just a bit of pocket money to you, is it?”

He grins. It’s his hard predator grin, and  _god_  has he fought his way to the top of the pyramid.

“Caroline,” he says, eyes glittering. “Just take the money. What else are you going to do? I’m certainly not taking it back.”

And the thing is, she can use some extra funds. The NHS pays shit. Little bastard knows that of course, he probably understands her finances better than she does.

She rubs at her eyes again. “So what are you here for?”

“To reassure your panicked sense of morality, obviously. I’d guessed you -  ”

“Jimmy. Rule one.”

He shuts his mouth, losing the sense of mockery and amusement. “I’m not lying.”

“You’re not telling me the whole truth either. What is it?”

He looks down, fingers tapping lightly on the surface of the table. “I have a new place,” he says, after a while. “Safe, really safe, no one gets in there while I’m inside. And it’s just me, solid thick walls, soundproofed windows. Perfect, really. It’s peaceful.”

“But?”

“But…” He looks up, jaw clenched. “But on bad days I feel like crawling the walls.”

She leans forward, irritation and worry and fear all taking a backseat to her duty of care. “How often are they? The bad days?”

“Depends. When – when things are going good, it’s easy, but when, when plans don’t work or something unexpected happens and I can’t predict, can’t –  I thought this would be finished now I’ve – but it’s – ” He breaks off, takes a deep breath. His hand has curled into a fist, knuckles white. “It’s like I’m boiling over. Like my skin can’t contain me, and I just – But I can cope with that,” he adds, something cold in his voice she hasn’t heard before.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I’m not sure.”

She leans back in her chair to study him. Sure, he looks good, well-fed, well-rested, clean and groomed and neat. But the tension is radiating off him.

“I think you’re getting too isolated.”

He laughs, loud and hard and surprised. “Honestly?  _That’s_ your answer? I need to go out and make  _friends_?”

“You need something to occupy yourself with,” she says. “Get out of your own head. Other people are good for that. Seriously, Jimmy, just – just try. There has to be someone out there you can trust, even a little bit.”

“Apart from you, you mean?” he asks, with a small knowing smile.

“Yeah,” she says, throat dry. “Apart from me.”

He looks out of the window. “Maybe. Other people are so  _boring_ , though. Predictable. Fun to push around, sure, but anything else…”

“Can you at least  _try_ not to sound like a megalomaniac psychopath?” she says impatiently.

Jimmy laughs. “Fine, I’ll try. Anything in particular you’re in the mood for? Charming wide boy? Cultured aristocrat? Tough-talking bit of rough?”

“Just  _you_  will do fine.”

He snorts. “Disappointing, Caro. All those options and you go for the most boring one.”

“No one in their right mind would ever call you  _boring_ , Jimmy.”

“Maybe.” He gives her an odd smile. “Don’t know. There aren’t many people who get to see the real me, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. And that’s the problem, if you ask me.”

“Hm. Maybe.” He taps his fingers on her table, looks around impatiently. His eyes fall on the pile of precariously-balanced folders on her desk. “Oh, I forgot to ask, didn’t I,” he says, personable and polite. “How  _is_  your new job?”

“You tell me,” she says dryly.

He smirks. “I’ve better things to do than go nosing in your affairs, Caro. You still need clients?”

“I’m nowhere near full-booked, no, but…”

He winks at her. “Let’s see what we can do about that, hm?”

“What, you’re going to blackmail people into becoming my patients?”

“Hardly.” He gives her an indulgent look. “I know people, now. I move and shake. And if I mention my talented clever doctor friend in the odd conversation, well…” He shrugs. “You never know what might happen.”

“Just keep it relatively legal, alright?”

He grins. “ _Relatively_  I can do. Anyway…” He stands up. “I should get going. Things to do, people to see…”

“Busy, are you?” she says sarcastically.

“Unbelievably.” And something flickers in his eyes, in his expression, setting of all her alarm bells.

He doesn't do courtesy calls. He only ever comes to her when he _needs_ it.

“You okay?” she asks, carefully.

He tilts his head, smiles. Another one of those strangely cold, hard looks crosses his face. “Perfectly. Worried, are you?”

“Look me in the eye and say it.  _I am okay_.”

He raises his chin, looks down his nose at her. “I'm as okay as I'll ever be,” he says, calmly. “Does that satisfy you?”

“I'm not doing this for my own satisfaction.”

“Then what are you doing it for?”

“You.”

She was expecting a wince, a twist of his mouth, some sign of the discomfort he's always shown when she starts talking about care, about her responsibility and her feelings. But for once his mask stays intact.

He's been getting better and better at that, lately.

“That's very noble of you,” he says, with a crooked, mocking smile. “Anyway, if that's all...” 

“Yeah. For now.”

“Bye then, Caro.” He winks at her. “See you around.”

“Take care, Jimmy,” she says.

“You know me, I always do.” He gives her a lazy wave and strides off, one hand in his pocket, confident as can be.

She tears her eyes away from him and looks down at the bank statement, its numbers glaring at her as if in reproach.  _For services rendered_.

The door falls closed. 

She takes the bank statement and tears it into shreds.

 

 

* * *

 

**VI**

 

GP’s aren’t supposed to advertise. She’s supposed to just take whoever drops by, whoever happens to live in her neighbourhood, and neatly register every one of them so they all get put in statistics, nice and legal.

But she knows the way true advertising works, the word-of-mouth and the whispers and, of course, the referrals. Especially in London. So she makes sure that right from the start, she cultivates a reputation of being discreet, confidential, no awkward question asks.  _Go to Doctor Bramwell_ , she makes them say,  _she’ll fix you without any bother_. Not strictly legal, of course, but it’s her duty.

_I will respect the privacy of my patients._

So maybe it’s only logical that she gets gunshot wounds.

She looks at the bloody mess of the guy’s shoulder – Gary, his name is Gary, no last name given – and sighs. “What the hell happened here?”

“I dug the bullet out,” Gary says proudly.

Smacking patients in the face is  _not_ professional and not something she should indulge in, no matter how stupid they are.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Right. Next time you get shot, love, leave the bullet where it is and come straight here. Alright?”

“Why? I thought I was – ”

She catches a sigh. “Bullet goes in, straight line. Splat. Not that much damage, unless you’re talking explosive rounds. Bullet out again? You fuck up the entire surrounding area. Got that?”

He nods, still looking a bit confused.

“Right.” She turns away to get her scalpel. The door bangs open behind her.

“Gaz!” a male voice yells behind her.

She looks up – buzzcut, tattoos, almost interchangeable with Gary. “Mate of yours, is he?” she asks.

“Yeah. Barry, get in.”

Barry gets in, hands in his pockets, looking supremely out of place in Caroline’s neat little practice. “What the hell happened?” he asks, jerking his chin at Gary’s shoulder.

“Got shot.”

She bends over Gary’s shoulder and tries really  _really_ hard not to eavesdrop. Not that it works, or that it worked the last times.

He isn’t the first gunshot wound she’s seen, lately. She’s almost grateful, these days, for colicky babies and hypochondriac housewives.

Bloody Jimmy and his sodding  _referrals_.

She threads her needle and starts stitching up Gary’s shoulder. They’re still talking, completely ignoring her.

“What the fuck went wrong, then? Got a mole?”

“No idea. Nothing on the street?”

“Nothing useful, lots of people panicking. Look, mate, are you _sure_ you don't have a clue who it could be?”

“I've kind of been thinking it was Moriarty behi-  _ow_.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles, focusing on the thread again.

 _Moriarty_. It’s a name she’s heard before, usually said with a certain amount of worry, fear, puzzlement, or even frustration. One of the most consistently recurring themes in all the conversations she's been not-hearing in the last few months.

For some reason, each time they mention him her blood runs cold.

“Who’s that, then?” Gary asks.

“Dunno. Just heard the name, a coupla times. You haven’t?”

“Nah. Think he’s got something to do with – ”

“ _Right_ ,” Caroline says loudly. “That’s you sorted. I’m assuming you’re not going to register as my patient?”

“Can’t have anyone knowing about this,” Gary says quickly.

“Then it’s fifty quid, please, come back in a week to get those stiches looked at and remember, next time you get shot,  _no digging out bullets_.”

Gary pays up, in cash, and his mate claps him cheerfully on the shoulder. “You should’ve seen the other guy, doc,” he says cheerfully.

“I’d rather not.”

She holds the door open for them. Criminals. Well, yes, obviously, but she’s got a duty of care and no matter how they got their wounds they still need to be treated.

Christ, how did she end up being a mob doctor?

She looks into the waiting room. Much to her surprise, Jimmy is sitting there, quiet and unobtrusive. His eyes follow the two men as they go out, but they don’t notice him.

She waits until the two men have left, then says, “Visiting me during proper hours? In my office? Are you feeling alright?”

“Well, no.” He pulls a face. “That’s why I’m here, obviously.”

“Get in, smartarse.”

He stands up and goes into her office. He looks well, a bit tired but still mostly alright – but with Jimmy, you never know.

She sits down behind her desk and pulls his file from a locked drawer. “You keep that here?” Jimmy asks sharply.

“I take it with me wherever I go. Safest, that way. Alright?”

He nods, tightly. Still a little on edge.

 “So, what is it?” she asks, in her calm steady doctor-voice.

“My arm.” He shrugs off his jacket and starts unbuttoning his sleeve. “I – ”

“Please don’t tell me you got shot and tried to dig out the bullet.”

“No, just burnt myself during an experiment.” He crinkles his nose. “What sort of idiot digs out a bullet?”

She smiles and peels off the bandage. Ugly burn, second degree and covering a large part of his inner arm. “You held it under running water?”

He huffs. “Obviously. I think I’m good, but I wanted to be sure, so…”

“Yeah.” She starts applying a clean bandage. “Keep it covered, don’t scratch, don’t pop the blisters. Change the dressing twice a day, and I’ll prescribe some antibiotics. You should be fine in a week or two, three. How’s the pain?” She looks up.

“Tolerable.” A flash of a smile. “I’ve had worse.”

“You know, that’s not  _actually_  reassuring.”

He laughs and rolls his sleeve back down. “So…” he asks as he does up his cufflink. “What was the previous consultation about?”

“None of your business,” she says absently, as she tears off a sheet from her prescription pad.

“It wouldn’t have been a gunshot wound in the upper arm by any chance, would it?”

She looks up.

“Thought so,” Jimmy says smugly.

“Out.”

His smile freezes. “What?”

“ _Out_ ,” she repeats, her voice shaking with suppressed anger.

“Oh, come on, Caro, don’t act all – ”

She slams her hand down on her desk and he actually recoils, startled. “Get the  _fuck_ out of my practice,” she snarls.

He blinks, licks his lips. “I just asked,” he says, sounding hesitant.

“ _Really_?” She stands up and shoves his prescription at him. “I know you might not think much of my professional ethics, but patient confidentiality is next to holy for me. I will not be your spy. Find yourself another doctor.”

Something like panic flies over his face. “What?”           

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll destroy your file. Patient confidentiality goes both ways, right?” She strides to the door and pulls it open. “But if I ever see your fucking face here again, or at my home for that matter, I’ll call the fucking police. Now piss off.”

He stands up, gaping like a fish, deathly pale. “But – ”

“ _Out_.”

He turns around and walks stiffly to the door, then stops. Turns.

He looks painfully, shockingly like the kid she brought home all those years ago. A tiny bit of vulnerability shining through a rock-hard shell.

“Caroline,  _please_ ,” he says, voice hoarse.

And a crack appears in her anger. It’s a small crack – she’s nowhere  _near_ forgiving him yet – but it’s there, and it’ll grow, and that means she can’t just throw him out.

She has a pretty good idea how much that one little word must have cost him, after all.

“Why should I?” she asks him. “Tell me, come on, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw you out after a fucking stunt like that.”

No anger, like she was expecting. Instead, there’s something almost like  _pain_. “Because I haven’t got anyone else. Caroline, I’m – ” He breaks off. “Please,” he says, again, something terribly vulnerable about him.

Another crack. She closes the door.

He doesn’t react. He just keeps staring at her, wide-eyed and terrified and focused in that over-intense, fight-or-flight way of abused kids everywhere. Not daring to relax until they’re sure the threat’s been neutralised.

The last of her anger dies with a pitiful death rattle.

“Fine,” she says, and he sags. She grabs his arm and pulls him back to her desk, where he collapses into the chair, head resting in his hands.

“Don’t  _ever_ fucking do that again,” he mumbles.

“Then don’t give me reason too,” she says. “I’m serious, Jimmy.”

“I know,” he mumbles. “I’m – I won’t. I shouldn’t have – I mean, I know you’re not, and, and I don’t want you to, you’re, you’re  _separate_. Not… No part.”

“You’re not making any sense,” she says, gently.

He doesn’t look up. “I know. Doesn’t matter. I won’t get you involved.”

It could be a lie. Jimmy has a complicated relationship with the truth, and she has little doubt he thinks twice about lying if it gets him where he wants. And yet...

It's funny, really. She knows next to nothing about him, and what she _does_ know doesn't exactly scream trustworthy. But she trusted him right from the start, never really felt afraid or unsafe around him, never even suspected him of lying - at least not about important things. 

Maybe she’s a fool to believe him.

“Thanks,” she says, nevertheless.

He doesn’t reply, head still in his hands. There’s something still about him, frozen.

“Jimmy?”

He opens his eyes, and ah, yes, there it is, the hostility she’d been expecting from him earlier. “Why  _you_?” he spits.

“Is that a rhetorical question or do you want me to answer that?” she asks, voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Oh, no, please do answer. Because I’ve been doing my head in over this one.” He sneers at her. “There’s nothing special about you. You’re not that intelligent, that interesting, that – ”

She covers her eyes with her hand. “Look, if you’re done insulting me, can you go? I’ve got other patients to see.”

“More rewarding ones?  _Safer_ ones? Stupid people who feed your ego, fulfil the role of victim to be saved? It must be annoying for you, mustn’t it, having a patient who doesn’t fucking worship you like you’re – ”

She slides her hand off. “Can’t you stop this?”

“What?” he says, still in the same caustic tone, with the same fixed mocking threatening stare.

“Every  _single bloody time_ ,” she says, dragging out the words. “You open up and then you panic and lash out just to make sure people don’t get too close and honestly, I’m fucking sick of it. Grow up.”

He blinks twice.

And then his face shuts off.  No more hostility, certainly no more vulnerability. Nothing at all. She’s seen him before with this kind of non-revealing mask but it’s never been this good, this effective.

 _Grow up_. They’re difficult words for him to hear, for reasons she doesn’t want to examine too closely, and she knows it. It’s a bastard move on her part, and she already regrets it a little.

But it’s the truth, and he  _is_ an adult, and babying him won’t do him any fucking good.

“Do I need to come back for a check-up?” he asks, in a perfectly civil, impersonal tone.

“Not unless there’s any complications. Jimmy, are you – ”

“Then I should be off.” He stands up, gives her a cool smile. “Goodbye, Caroline.”

“Jimmy…”

But he doesn't even look back. He simply closes the door behind him, gently, and disappears from sight.

Leaving her sitting at her desk, completely blindsided, and with a worrying feeling of  _failure_ creeping up on her.

 

* * *

 

**VII**

 

She doesn’t see him for months.

It’s not that unusual. Jimmy has always been sporadic when it comes to visiting her, sometimes disappearing for months, sometimes dropping by two or three times a week. He’s unpredictable, he always has been, and she’d grown used to that.

This is different.

Not that she can do anything about it. There’s no point in asking around for him, not anymore – it might even be dangerous, these days. If Jimmy doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be found. And if he wants her to find him, he’ll let her know.

And if this is a fucking test, well, she refuses to cooperate. There  _are_ limits.

So she waits.

Until one day she comes home and he’s sitting on her windowsill, cigarette between his fingers.

“Ah,” she says, hand on the doorknob, bag dropped to the floor.

He doesn’t even look up.

She closes up. “How did you get in? There’s an alarm system, supposed to be top of the range. Please tell me you at least had a bit of trouble with it.”

No reply.

She takes off her coat, puts her bag away, all the while studying him from the corner of her eyes. The lights are still off, stupidly dramatic of him, but for some reason she doesn’t want to turn them on either.

“Recovered from your little hissy fit, then?” she asks. “Five months enough to mend your damaged pride?”

Still nothing.

She turns to him. “Seriously,” she says. “I spent thousands on that burglar alarm. It’s supposed to be unbreakable.”

He gives her a fleeting amused look, but doesn’t say a word.

There’s something off about him, even apart from the unnerving silence. Something hard to pinpoint, just a general sense of coldness, distance. Not the emotionless mask he’d worn the last time she saw him, either.

This is new. And a little worrying.

“Are you alright, love?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. Then, “No.” A nervous little twitch of his hand. “I honestly don’t know anymore, actually.”

“What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t reply. She goes a bit closer, carefully. Just in case his claws are out.

“Do you ever…” he starts.

She takes another cautious step closer. “What?”

“Do you ever start doubting yourself? Wondering if you made a mistake somewhere along the line?”

“Course I do,” she says, a little surprised. “Everyone does, don’t they?”

“I don’t know.” He takes a drag, eyes still focused on the outside.

“Everyone has those little – or big, for that matter – crises of confidence,” she says. “And then you move on again.” She leans against the wall next to where he’s sitting and studies him. Pale, serious, humourless in a way she doesn’t often see him. “In most cases, it’s too late to change anything anyway.”

“It’s never too late,” Jimmy says. He closes his eyes and tips his head back. “You once said I was your job.”

“Yes?” she asks, hesitantly.

“That’s not quite true, is it?” He opens his eyes, looks at her. “I’ve never been a job to you. Never been just another patient.”

She shakes her head.

“It’s dangerous.” He gives her a tired smile. “Don’t they warn you against that sort of thing, getting over-involved?”

“If you ask me, Jimmy,” she says carefully, “I got just as involved as I needed to be, with you.”

He looks away. “Still concerned about my wellbeing?”

“Always.”

“Then get it under control. Be – be just my doctor, and forget about the rest.” He takes a deep drag from his cigarette. “I can’t do this anymore, Caroline. Coming here, I mean.”

“Why not?” she asks. “Because of what I said?”

“No. Just… A lot of reasons.” He gives her a grim smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll still need a doctor. I won’t disappear off the earth.”

“Yeah, that’s not what I…” She shakes her head. “You know you’re always welcome here, Jimmy.”

He cocks his head, his eyes dark. “It’s Jim, now.  _Grow up_ , you told me. Didn’t you?”

She nods, throat gone dry.

“I think I have, now.” He smiles. “Besides, it’s got a good ring to it, doesn’t it?”

His eyes go back outside, ash dropping from his fingers, and her stomach turns because she knows, of course she knows, she’s known since that first night he spent here that this was where he was heading –

“Jim Moriarty,” he says, softly, eyes on London.

 _I’m going to have this_.

“Congratulations,” she says, throat dry.

He grins, wide and predatory. “Thanks.”

“And now what?” 

If he recognises the words, hears the echo across the years, he doesn't show it. He just turns and arches an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“Now you have all this. What happens now?”

He shrugs. “I keep it. That’s a fulltime job as well. And I’ll…” He trails off. “I don’t know. I’ll find something. Something to distract me.”

“From?”

His mouth twists into a smile. “Myself?”

“And what if you don’t?”

He looks outside again, no reply. Not that she was expecting one.

She stands behind him and carefully puts her hand on his shoulder. He flinches, slightly, but doesn’t push her off. So she squeezes, gently.

After a moment, his hand comes up to cover hers. His fingers are cold, slightly clammy.

_If it is given me to save a life, all thanks._

Maybe it’s arrogance, overestimating her own role. Jimmy is survival incarnate, after all, the type to crawl out of even the most debilitating of circumstances and put himself together piece by broken piece.

Or maybe – well, maybe the world would have been better off without him. Maybe she should’ve left him in the cold, alone, that first night she saw him. Who knows how many deaths she has caused, indirectly, how many crimes.

Doesn’t mean she regrets this.

“I’ll find something,” Jimmy says. “I have to. I will. The world’s a big place, there has to be – has to be something. Right?”

“Yeah,” she says, throat dry.

“I’ll find something.”

“’Course you will.”

He leans back against her, and for a moment she has to struggle against the irrational urge to pull him close, hold him, keep him from leaving. Not that he’d appreciate it, not that she really wants him to, but…

And then he pulls away. He stands up, straightens his shoulders, wipes away the last lingering traces of vulnerability, and again something in her rebels, wants to shout out  _no, don’t_.

Harrowing though it is, Jimmy’s vulnerability, at least it’s human. This, this cold mask, this detached amusement…

“Look at you,” he says, softly, cruelly. “Empty nest syndrome already, Caro?”

She shakes her head. “Are you sure this is the right decision?”

“Of course I’m not  _sure,_  only idiots are ever really  _sure_.”

“Then just – reconsider. Won’t you? Just think this over, before you make any definite decisions.”

“That lonely, are you?” he asks, with a cold smile that’s completely different from the way he usually lashes out. “That  _desperate_ that even my company would be preferable to being alone?”

“I like you,” she says, pointedly.

“Please.” Another condescending smile. “You think I’m an annoying little shit, and that’s when you’re being mild.”

“Yeah. And I still like you.”

“Well, we’ve already established that you’ve got shit taste in men, haven’t we?”

She stays silent. Watches him.

There’s nothing, not a single crack left for her to reach him through, not a single sign of humanity. Just this. Just mocking cruelty, with something empty underneath.

She saw him cry, once. She saw him cry and she held him and cared for him and he  _let her_.

“Is it worth it?” she blurts out.

He laughs. “ _God_ , Caroline. Really? What do you want me to say to that?”

“Just - tell me you've considered it. That you're - that you won't regret this.”

“Caro,” he says, all indulgent arrogance and condescension, like he's talking to a child. “Are you trying to change my mind?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s not like I can stop you, is it?”

“No,” he says, with an odd little smile. “You can’t stop me. No one can.”

“I know.”

He keeps watching her. Not pleading, not the way he was when she first met him. Just – blank. Not that he’d ever been easy to read, but at least then there had been something. Now…

“Goodbye, Caro,” he says, calmly, almost fondly in a detached sort of way. “I’ll be seeing you at the practice, from now on.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Sure.”

He goes to the door, then pauses, hand resting on the frame.

“Jimmy?”

He looks over his shoulder.

And there it is, beneath all the cold intelligence and the sneering and the distance and the refusal to be affected by anything or anyone.

A kid. Still a kid, lost and alone and  _terrified_.

“Don’t – ”

But, as if by speaking she broke the spell, the vulnerability disappears. Nothing left. Empty.

Untouchable.

“Thank you,” he says.

And then he’s gone.


End file.
